


Drink Deep the Lilacs

by Continental



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Adultery, Affairs, Drabble, M/M, Short, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Continental/pseuds/Continental
Summary: How strange Basil Hallward was.





	Drink Deep the Lilacs

Basil Hallward wasn’t one of the most eye catching persons Lord Henry Wotton was acquainted with; he was rather one of the most ordinary. He was rather simple, rather plain, not quite beautiful but not bad to look at. He might have been what one would call “pretty,” if it wasn’t for the strength in his features and his constantly tired expression, but even still, they were much inseparable friends and, to put it plainly, were reveling in quite a wonderful affair. 

Oh, how Henry loved a good affair! Sneaking around while the city had its back turned, having sex safely in the confines of Basil’s studio, or risking it by fucking— fast and filthy— in Lord Henry’s library while his little wife was away, and even once when she wasn’t. Kissing in the garden… Henry pulling Basil in for a long, passionate, languid kiss; Basil’s slight flinch and soft, “Don’t put your tongue in, no, don’t touch me like that,” because he knew that if Henry did they would have to make love on the garden ground, and Basil so hated getting dirty, and yet he’d throw himself back into the kiss, drink deep the scent of lilacs and leave fervent kisses on the young lord’s neck. Henry was rough and dominating during sex, and Basil was soft and gentle and easily dominated, but he definitely wasn’t boring, as Henry had originally speculated. He liked to beg, and Lord Henry Wotton liked to be begged, and when Basil Hallward, well-known for his composure and so quiet nature, begged whiningly and dirtyly, and clawed his nails down Henry’s back, moaning, “Harry, Harry, Harry!” or when he dropped to his knees in front of Henry, lounging on a divan with his expensive cigarettes, as always, and took his cock in his mouth and showed him that art wasn’t the only thing he practiced at Oxford, it seemed that Basil Hallward, as he knew him, was almost gone, and that alone would have pleased him even if he didn’t feel so good. But then Basil would rise to face level and kiss him deeply, passionately, romantically, lovingly… or whisper the sweetest, most poetic nothings in his ear while being utterly ruined, sullied, defiled… and it seemed that Basil Hallward had come right back, and Lord Henry was overcome with an intriguing sense of familiarity… 

How strange Basil Hallward was. There was something so curious about his innocence: or rather, his naivety. He would ask him, “Harry, do you find me beautiful?” and Lord Henry would reply, “You are not beautiful, Basil, I rather find you interesting.” The artist’s expression would resemble that of pain, but his eyes betrayed him. Basil had lived and his innocence was a farce; he was naive not by knowledge but by nature. He always looked for the best in every single someone he met, and if he couldn’t find the best, he would keep on searching until he could at least find something good enough to hold on to. Perhaps that was why he had pursued Henry, pursued him without even realizing it. 

Henry had tried to influence him, like he had so many others, and Basil had unknowingly tried to influence him as well. Basil fretted over him, threw himself onto the luxurious silk sheets of Lord Henry’s adulterous bed, grabbed up his hands, and said, “There is good in you, Harry!” with such conviction that Lord Henry almost believed him, if only for a fraction of a second. But good intentions and passionate curiosity met in the middle, spun around in the air wildly, and fell flat on the cold marbled floor of ill fate. 

Of the many misters and misses that came in and out of his life, Basil Hallward was the one constant; he had projected a piece of himself into so, so many innocents he had come in contact with, and yet this man, this introverted, tired little artist, had remained unmarked, unstained, untouched by his immoral hands… to an extent. Maybe that was why he felt the way he did about him; he loved him for the moment (“Do you love me? Be honest, Harry,” Basil whispered, so soft and pure, his head resting on the young lord’s heart. “For the moment, Basil, I love you dearly,” Lord Henry replied. “For I have loved many before you, and will love many after.”), and if the influence he had over Basil Hallward was dominating and owning him physically, making him beg for unspeakable pleasures, watching him fall apart under his lips and his hands… then so be it.


End file.
